


Warm Heart

by privateerwrites



Series: Musketeer March 2021 [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff, How Do I Tag, M/M, Prayer, basically this is just softness okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privateerwrites/pseuds/privateerwrites
Summary: Musketeer March Day 3- Favorite RarepairBasically just trevilieu cuddling softness with some plot thrown in there for an excuse to do so.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Series: Musketeer March 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188632
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Warm Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Whee!! okay so a couple of things- 
> 
> \- the geography is probably okay-ish  
> \- the praying bit is a spot shaky  
> \- yeah I know this isn't really a rarepair but I wanted to write this anyway so. here.

Richelieu is distracted. He is so, so, unreasonably, inconveniently distracted.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, purses his lips, and turns back to Louis, trying desperately to focus on the King's words instead of the solid, broad figure across the room towards whom, his eyes keep drifting of their own volition.   
  
"Well, Cardinal?"   
  
Richelieu blinks hard and smiles pleasantly- what Jean calls his politics smile- and rotates his body farther away from the crowd in the ballroom.   
  
"An excellent proposal, Your Majesty," he begins. "If I may suggest, though..." his voice trails off as Jean crosses his line of sight briefly. _Damn that cloak_ , he thinks, feeling rather ungracious towards its existence. He clears his throat and starts again.   
  
"If I may suggest, though, perhaps Your Majesty should consider-"   
  
"Majesty," says a voice next to him, warm and familiar.   
  
"Treville," sighs Louis.   
  
"I trust you are well, Majesty?"   
  
For a moment, Richelieu isn't sure if Louis will take the bait, follow the conversation. In any case, he's glad for the rescue, even if it comes in a form rather more distracting than he'd like. When Louis does take up the conversation with the Captain of his Musketeers, Richelieu excuses himself quietly with a word and a nod.   
  
He meanders around the room, turning down the offer of food and instead just twirling the stem of his wine glass in his hand. As he looks around, his eyes snag again on a blue cloak, shockingly bright against brown leather, and just like that, he's distracted again, drawn to the man of unsurpassing strength and grace.   
  
The Cardinal whirls around on his heel and faces away from Je- from Treville. Quickly, he finds entertainment in the form of a debate on a passage in Augustine, engrossing himself in the now long-familiar and well-worn discussion. He loses track of time like this, arguing and lecturing, letting the comfort of religion wrap around him like a warm blanket, heavy and possessive and grounding. ( _Like Jean's cape,_ says a quiet voice in his head.)   
  
He bows out of the ball at 1:30 in the morning, having exhausted both his ability to avoid being distracted to the point of uselessness and his ability to socialize. His feet lead him out the doors of the ballroom and away from the noise of the palace with an ease built from years of habit.   
  
Within the space of just a few moments, he is in his rooms, and the cool summer air flowing in through his windows is a balm. He's warm, he realizes suddenly, really, really warm, and he quickly sheds his outer layers, changing out into something light in which he can sleep. He takes a moment to look out across the gardens, appreciating their beauty, before closing the windows slightly and drawing the curtains closed.  
  
Richelieu kneels to pray, clasping his hands and lifting his chin skyward. He goes through the easy prayers first, the ones that he has known all his life. The words are soothing, a repetitive cleansing of his soul, something in which he can find solace and a place to rest. These prayers are, for the most part, his only break from people asking things of him- everyone knows not to disturb the Cardinal while he prays. Everything he does, he does for the interests of France, but this small moment at the end of the day, this? This is his, all his.   
  
He moves to the harder prayers next, harder because these he doesn't know for what he is praying until the words fall from his lips, harder because they have not been imparted upon him his entire life, harder because they are personal and they ache, a little. He finishes with a soft prayer, one he's said a thousand times and worn smooth by now, and sits back on his heels.   
  
Armand rises after a moment, pushing up against his bed, his knees creaking as he stands. He turns and sits on the edge of the bed, leans his arms on his legs and lets his head hang low, a posture more reminiscent of one in which Treville would engage than he, but for that reason, it is comforting. (Richelieu has never needed reminders of his existence, but the existence of those he cares for is something else entirely, and the reminder that he carries people with him even when they are not near is something he enjoys.)  
  
"Armand," says a soft voice from the doorway. He looks up. Standing there is the subject of his distraction tonight, a man now dressed only in sleep clothes and a hat instead of armor and cloak, adorned with nothing save his crucifix, for once, unarmed.   
  
"Jean," he says, and the man crosses the room in three steps and then they are kissing.   
  
It's soft and gentle, only an expression of tenderness, not a prelude to anything more, and Armand leans up into it, revels in that which he has not been allowed for a week or more.   
  
"Jean," Armand breathes, and this time it sounds more like a prayer. Jean has accused him, in the past, of making his name sound more like an invocation and less like a name, though Armand finds that he doesn't care, and he knows that Jean doesn’t really, either.

As they part from the kiss, Jean pulls him closer into his arms and holds him tight against his body, like he is holding something valuable and beautiful and unbreakable.   
  
"Armand," he intones quietly, kissing the side of Richelieu's head. As if in slow motion, they fall over sideways in their embrace, cushioned against the softness of the bed. Armand huffs a little laugh at this, not really amused but more pleased in the way that can’t really properly be expressed.

He leans forward and grabs Jean's hand, just because he can, and links their fingers, lifting their joined hands to his mouth and pressing a kiss to Jean’s fingers.   
  
"I love you."   
  
"And I, you."   
  
They fall asleep wrapped up in each other like that, arms tangled and legs mixed up and hands kept together, and though Richelieu wakes alone to a cold bed, his heart is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> If tumblr is more your thing, I'm also over there at privateerstudies!


End file.
